Eventide
by PetiteRaconteur
Summary: "Due to an extreme lack of activity in the current position of your team, composed of Sk. Miles Bradely, Lt. Andrej Kowalski, Ricardo Santiago, and Pv. Percy Jones, your headquarters have been altered." "Galileo Galilei," Kowalski mumbled.


A dark velvet frame, shaped like an egg, surrounded the black and white photograph of two young men grinning at the photographer. They were squinting, their eyes transformed to thin slits in, what seemed, a hot summer day. Their bodies seemed worked out, muscles showing underneath their identical shirts. Matching the shirt, were two askew millitary caps. One of the young men had put his arm around the other's neck, indicating a strong friendship between the two. Next to the two men, stood another person. However, the identity remained unknown, as a dark stain had spread across that corner. It faded into the velvet, lightly darkening the dusky fabric.

The man, in his late twenties, stood on the porch with a steaming cup of coffee. He looked up and snapped the little locket, resembling a picture frame, shut. The warm sunrays fell on his face, soothing and warming simultaneously. The man took a sip of his hot coffee and slipped the locket into the pocket of his jeans. But the sparkling eyes of the young men lingered in his memory, penetrating his inner eye as if it wanted to leave a message there. Sighing, he stepped back inside the dusty old room, where a young boy awaited him, holding a yellow package in his hands.

"The postman brought this," he said with a british accent, brightening up at the sight of the man. "I signed for you, is that alright? You were in the garden, so I thought..." The young boy's voice trailed off and he handed the man the yellow package, saluted with a grin, and left the room. The wooden floor creaked under his steps as if it wanted to imitate the complaining of an old man. Setting his cup of coffee down on the window sill, the man turned the package over in his hands.

"Sk. Miles Bradley," he murmured his name, glancing at the receiver's address. He quickly grabbed a used butterknife from the breakfeast remains on the nearby table and carefully slit the package open. Pulling out several crisp envelopes, Bradley opened the first one. He scanned the writing quickly with a uninterested air, then moved on to the next letter. It was all routine, the usual information he received every two months from his employees. Bradley tossed the papers aside and turned back to his coffee. It had gotten cold and he scorned at the marron liquid. The floor started creaking behind him, signaling the entrance of another.

"Kowalski," Bradley said without turning around.

"Yes, sir," the tall bespectacled man answered. "I believe I'm on clean-up duty today?" He jerked his head toward the table holding the breakfeast remains.

"Affirmative, soldier," Bradley answered and left the room, frowning at the floor's complaints underneath him. Kowalski took several plates from the table and carried them into the kitchen to set them into the sink. The tap was set on open, but no water came out. Kowalski returned to the breakfeast table and brought the other dishes into the kitchen absentmindely. He was about to wet a cloth and wipe the breadcrumbs off the surface of the table when his eyes fell on a sheet that had fallen down from Bradely's stack of envelopes and papers. The tall man set the wet cloth down and wiped his hands off his pants. He stooped to pick it up, but his eyes fell on the words.

"You and your team will be relocated to Manhattan, New York?" he read astonished. In discomfort, Kowalski took his glasses down from his face and started cleaning them with his cotton shirt.

"We're being relocated?" he murmured to no one in particular. Obviously, it was no suprise. Ole Virginia had been nice when they first started living in the century-old house; it had felt like an adventure. But now, the creaking of the wooden floor, the useless tap with no water, the partly-damaged roof, the bedroom window upstairs that won't quite shut, it all had started to feel like a nightmare rather than adventure. Kowalski adjusted his glasses and read the letter carefully.

_U.S. Department of the Army Combat of Service Boxington, Virginia, U.S._

_Subject: Relocation to Manhattan, New York, U.S._

_Sk. Miles T. Bradely,_

_Due to an extreme lack of activity in the current position of your team, composed of Sk. Miles Bradely, Lt. Andrej Kowalski, Ricardo Santiago, and Pv. Percy Jones, your headquarters have been altered. In two days, you and your team will be relocated to Manhattan, New York to deal with the increasing criminal activity there. You will be notified if any changes are made._

_Geoffrey J. Lyron Director, En.D._  
_U.S. Department of Army_

"Galileo Galilei," Kowalski mumbled, taking out two keys from the envelope. "That's quite something." The floor creaked as he left the room to inform Bradley, its complaints echoing in the empty air. Soon the table would disappear, the chairs around it, the little black couch, the TV. The kitchen would be emptied, its defective tap deserted with no hope of water ever running through it again. Bradley would never drink his morning coffee at his usual spot on the porch again. It was retirement time for the ancient house.

Two days later, the house was emptied, its retirement had arrived. The three men and the young boy piled in front an old dirty millitary jeep, laden with trunks, bags, and gadgets.

"Goodbye, old chap," the young boy whispered, his eyes following the house until it went out of sight.

"Come on now, Percy," Kowalski muttered, typing their new adress into a silver-colored GPS. "It's an object, it can't feel or speak or even know that we're gone."

"That's right, soldier," Bradley nodded, concentrating on the road. He was at the wheel, thinking about the new commission. For the last few years, his team had had not much to do. The worst that had happened was between two grandpa's, threatening to knock each other's teeth out. The teeth had been fake, anyway, and no damage had been done. And before that... the man's mind wandered back to the black and white photograph. Although it had been two days since he had last glanced at it, the sparkling eyes of the two young men were still engraved in his mind.

Percy sighed and settled back into the comfortable car seat in the back. He glanced over at his teammate, Ricardo Santiago, or Rico, as they called him. Rico was listening to music with closed eyes. Percy took the time and studied the scar running down his face. It started at his ear, running down his cheek to his neck in a long, reddend streak. Percy had often wondered what the story behind this scar was, but Rico had never told anyone. That might be due to the fact that Rico was mute. He couldn't talk. Occasionally, a grunt or two escaped his mouth, otherwise, Rico was as silent as the grave. Often people gossiped about him, especially in the small town they had formerly lived in. They were afraid of the mute man and came up with wild tales, such as that he was a physcopathic serial killer or a pedophilic rapist. After a year or two, Rico couldn't enter the town due to the suspicious glares of the people living there.

"It'll be a new start for you, Rico," Percy told him with a sudden burst of empathy. Rico took out his earplugs and glared at Percy.

"I'm not sure that Rico prefers you to pity him," Kowalski explained to Percy who suddenly watched the road with a new-found interest. Suddenly, Percy screamed out in excitement.

"There's a guy hitchhiking at the side of the road!" he shouted. "Can we pick him up, please?"

"Every day a good deed," Bradley agreed and pulled over. "Where you going to, buddy?"

"Manhattan, New York," the hitchhiker smirked and adjusted his backbag.

"How interesting," Kowalski exclaimed and moved to the back between Percy and Rico. "Then we have the same destination. Beautiful city, so I've heard."

"The only real advantage of New York is that all its inhabitants ascend to heaven right after their deaths, having served their full term in hell right on Manhattan Island." The man responded, still smirking. "Barnard Bulletin, brilliant guy."

"Jump in," Bradley said, motioning at the empty front seat next to him. He liked the man's attitude.

"I'll take your rucksack!" Percy offered and reached out his hands for the backpack.

"I'll keep it, thanks," the man said, clutching his backpack, and climbed in next to Bradley. The jeep's engine sputtered and soon the group was on the road again.

"So, where are you from?" Kowalski leaned forward with interest.

"Maryland," the man said. "Great place for retired people. Not so much for me." Percy nodded, thinking of their former stay in Boxington, Virginia.

"Well, what's your name?" Bradley asked the man after five minutes.

"What's yours?" the hitchhiker returned with a playful grin. Bradley played along.

"Miles Bradley, and these three back there are Kowalski, Rico, and Percy."

"Brent Adams at your service."

Although he was listening to music, Rico closely scrutinized the hitchhiker. He had a long face, his brown hair was longer in the back, put together with a hairband. His eyes were small, darting to and fro, indecisive. His hand clutched his backpack, his pose was tight. His fingers started to draw something out of the front pocket of his bag.

"Mind if I smoke," Adams asked, revealing a box of cigarrettes. He lightened one without waiting for consent and offered the pack to the rest in the car. Rico took one, but didn't light it. He stuffed it into his pocket, then handed the package to Kowalski, who passed it back to Adams.

"Mhmmm," Adams said, smoking his cigarette, suddenly willing to talk a bit more. "So, what are you boys up to?"

"Nothing much," Bradley said, checking the gas tank. "We're moving because of our job."

"Whatcha doing?" Adams puffed out a cloud of smoke and Kowalski reached over Private and opened a window.

"We work for the millitary," Bradley answered.

Adams sat up, forgetting his cigarette for a moment, "Really? I used to serve there for a while, but I'm a Private. What's your rank?"

"I'm a Private, too!" Percy interrupted excitedly.

"I'm a Skipper," Bradley said. "Used to serve in the Navy for some time, then changed to the Army. Captain now."

"Lieutenant." Kowalski said.

"And him?" Adams jerked his head toward Rico.

"He's our weapon expert. No special rank for him, but he's one hell of a guy to have on your team," Bradely explained. Adams nodded and puffed on his cigarrette again. Then he threw it out of the window and, leaning his head back, closed his eyes and soon fell asleep, head drooping. His mouth opened a little, revealing stained teeth.

The time passed. Skipper took turns driving with Rico and Kowalski, they stopped several times on the way to buy lunch and go to the "loo" as Percy called it. Adams had started telling them a bit more about his life. He had been raised in the country by strict parents, but hated his life. Despite his father's wish for him to follow in his footsteps as an energy engineer, Adams had no interest whatsoever in biofuels or hydropowers, and so deliberately joined the army against his parent's wishes. He spent a year or so there, but because of his bad habits of reaching for the bottle after every crisis, he was never upgraded to more than a Private. In fact, he had been the black sheep of his squad. He left the army after an unfortunate event and now worked in a bar in Manhattan. Adams had been visiting some friends and now he was returning to Manhattan per hitchhiking.

Finally, night had already drawn her curtains, the jeep passed a illuminated, ridiciously large, sign that read "You are now entering Manhattan, New York. We hope you enjoy your stay." Underneath the words, someone had graffiti-sprayed "It's the Highway to Hell!" They passed underneath the sign.

"Wow," Bradley muttered after a few minutes of driving. An array of sparkling lights, emanating from skyscrapers, stretched across the horizont, shimmering like stars against the dark blue night sky. An elongated body of water stretched to the side of the highway, its surface reflecting the extravagant city. Several luxurious ships perched on the river, lights, music and people furnishing their decks. Completing the breathtaking scene was the national emblem for liberty, freedom and equality: the green Statue of Liberty in all her glory, holding up the golden torch high above New York.

"Home, sweet home, eh?" Adams said in a raspy voice. He threw the most recent cigarette out of the car window and grinned with the air of a true New Yorker. "Thanks, guys, for taking me along."

Bradley pulled the car over to a road and stopped the engine, "No offense, but you should stop smoking," he said, waiting for Adams to get his things together. "That's an order, soldier."

Adams mock-saluted, "Aye-aye, Skipper."

"Skipper, eh?" Bradley smirked. "That has a nice touch to it."

The hitchhiker slung his backpack over his soldier, waved a coquette goodbye, and disappeared into the dark New Yorker streets, whistling some tune.

"Well," Kowalski said after a while, "we should be on our way to the new accomadation, shouldn't we, Bradley?Bradley shook his head, "Forget the name, call me Skipper from now on."

"Skipper, sir?" Kowalski's eyes danced merrily. "I suppose we would call Percy

Private, then."

"Why not?" Bradley returned. "Skipper, Kowalski, Rico, and Private. I like it." Rico nodded vigorously. It was obvious that he was also pleased with the results. Percy mumbled something, his eyes half-shut. It was getting quite late and the young boy yearned for his soft bed.

"Seems like the Private wants to catch some Zzz's," Bradley, now Skipper, observed. "I say, we find our apartment and move in." He started the engine again and rolled through the streets. Kowalski turned the GPS on and picked the new adress he had typed in earlier. The touchscreen immediately responded and proceeded to show him a map of Manhattan.

"Drive 950 feet, then turn left," a pleasant female voice sounded from the gadget. Skipper followed the voice's direction, turning left after the designated time. The jeep passed through the empty sidestreets, where tall lonely street lights cast cones of light on to the sidewalk. Cats were crowding in corners where people had thrown their trash to and Skipper made out a few people on the sidewalk, often lying alone with a dirty blanket or a bag.

"Sir, isn't this the city that never sleeps?" Kowalski's voice sounded near to his ear.

After half an hour or so, they came to a stop in front of a large gated community with, in what seemed, a colossal park right next to it, but it was hard to see in the darkness.

"I believe we're in front of the Central Park," Kowalski spectulated, glancing at the GPS' map. Skipper parked the jeep in one of the designated places and stepped out.

"Let's make sure, we don't wake any neighbors up," he said sternly, taking two bags. Kowalski followed his example, the sleepy Private, formerly Percy, took one, and Rico took four.

"Show off," Kowalski hissed at his muscular friend. Skipper inserted the key that came in the envelope into the entrance's keyhole and opened the door quietly. Then he stepped into a larger area of unused space and wondered which of the many houses standing in the housing complex would be theirs. A man walked out from a nearby house, lighting a cigarette then puffing it. His hair was greying out, his dressing style showed of a sophisticated, but rather modest lifestyle. Skipper set the two bags he was carrying down and quickly walked over to the man.

"Excuse me, but we're renting a house here. Would you know which one is number 64?" Skipper asked. The man darted a suspicious look at him, and puffed his cigarette. For some odd reason, Skipper thought he could read fear and distrust in the man's eyes.

"Well?" Skipper pressed again.

"2nd row from the left, go straight, turn right. You can't miss it."

"Thank you," Skipper felt indignation rise up in him at the rude treatment he was receiving. He forced himself to stay calm. "I'm Miles Bradley."

"O'Doherty. Leonard O'Doherty," the man answered stiffly.

"Nice to meet you, Mr. O'Doherty," Skipper smiled and turned to go back to his team. He resisted the urge to roll his eyes to show his frustrations and picked up his bags. "Let's go, boys."The four tiredly passed through the row of houses, ignoring the night sounds of distant cars and crickets. Their house was hard to find; all of the houses on the block looked the same, their dark outlines contrasting the night sky, lightened by the nearby city. Eventually Skipper put the fitting key into the keyhole of their apartment and opened the door. They stepped into a single room with a kitchen and stairs leading down the basement. Skipper groped in the dark for a light switch but couldn't find one. Rico handed him a flashlight.

"It doesn't seem very large, Brad-er, Skipper," Kowalski criticized, setting the bags down with a tired manner.

"It'll have to do," Skipper said, taking out his sleeping bag and locking the door. He set the sleeping bag on the floor and waited for Kowalski, Rico, and Private to do the same. They copied his actions, dumping the bags around them on to the floor, then each nestled into his own sleeping bag, tired but happy. Skipper watched them, his eyes aching, then laid down himself, pulling the soft synthetic cover over his shoulder. Tomorrow in the morning they could clean up. Tomorrow would be a new day, they would unpack, get to know their neighbors, start their new life. The warmth of the sleeping bag intruded into his thoughts and he stifled a yawn.

"Nothing like an good old fart sack, eh?" he murmured and closed his eyes.

Kowalski mumbled good night, then Skipper's thoughts washed gently over his brain like soft waves on a beach.

**I did write this myself, if there are any misunderstandings. **


End file.
